


bush & hornblower 1

by romanticalgirl



Series: December Ficlets 2007 [33]
Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:51:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted 12-21-07</p>
    </blockquote>





	bush & hornblower 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 12-21-07

The room’s only light comes from the coppery gold that filters through slatted blinds that do little to keep out the sun or the heat of the day. Instead there is this light that seeps behind his eyes, refusing to let him rest. His mattress is soaked with sweat, wet from his own fevered heat. Insects buzz lazily in the air around him, settling on him and then flying away, their legs light against his skin.

He senses Hornblower’s presence, his silence giving him away in the way that breathing and shifting would in other men. Instead he sits perfectly still, washed to the same color as the walls against his dark hair and dark uniform and fading into the fathomless depth of his eyes. He sits and watches without a sound, leaving and arriving in the few moments of time that Bush finds sleep.

When Bush sits up, Hornblower comes to life. He moves his chair next to the bed, making conversation that is never the small talk so many others embark upon, but logistics and orders, victualling and stocking. He paints pictures with his words so that Bush can see the ship as clear as if his room faces the sea, the copper glinting occasionally in the sun as the tide dances with her.

He feeds Bush fruits, cutting them carefully on the table beside the bed, letting the juices pool in the slices in the wood. His fingers are delicate around the flesh colored all manners of pinks and greens, yellows and purples. He takes them between his teeth, lips grazing Hornblower’s fingers. It means nothing, as little as the soft touches as Hornblower chases drops of juice with his fingers, catching them before they slide down Bush’s chin. 

At the end, Bush’s lips taste of the sweet tartness of the fruit chased by the bitter sting of tea and he closes his eyes, willing himself toward sleep as night seems tempted to fall, watching as Hornblower sits off to the side, chair in the corner, licking the remnants of the afternoon from his fingertips.


End file.
